Dr. Wagner had been bent over his paperwork, ink still drying on a medical report, when the noise cut through his door shouts, hurried whispers, footsteps pounding down the hall. His head snapped up, his instincts prickling. He shoved his chair back and rushed out, lab coat billowing behind him.
The medical wing was in disarray. Colleagues he had known for decades were huddled together like frightened children, whispering as if afraid the walls themselves might hear. He spotted one of the nurses young, pale, shaking and strode toward her.
"What is going on?" he demanded, his accent thickening as it always did when urgency seized him.
The nurse flinched at his voice. Her lips trembled. "They're back."
Wagner's stomach knotted. "Who is back? Damn it, speak, Frau."
Her eyes darted as though the very names would summon death itself. She swallowed hard, whispering so low he almost missed it:
"The Ashen Sisters…"
Wagner froze, every ounce of color draining from his face. He didn't need more than the nickname the city had given it to them for good reason. Fire and silence. Chaos and shadow. Lyssara and Sevrina Vale.
Later, in the Central Tower…
Zalthorion's office hummed with quiet order. He stood before his holographic desk, fingers gliding through files, arranging dossiers like a conductor guiding a symphony. The city stretched endlessly outside the glass, its glow painting sharp lines across his shoulders.
In the corner, little Marisov sat cross-legged on the floor, humming softly as he pieced together a miniature nuclear reactor from a kit tiny rods, cooling chambers, all snapped together with careful precision. He was lost in his work.
Then the door burst open with a slam that rattled the chamber. Dr. Wagner stormed in, red-faced, glasses slipping down his nose.
"They're back!" he shouted, voice cracking between rage and fear. "And you did not tell me, Zalthorion!"
The Guardian did not flinch. His hand continued its calm dance across the holographic screen. "I did not have enough time. Just like you, I only received the news now."
"Verdammt!" Wagner barked, slamming his fist against the desk. "Why do you keep them? All they do is cause chaos! Because of them the injury rate in Evolto City is higher than expected it is always higher when they are here!" His German accent thickened until his words spat like sparks.
Before Zalthorion could answer, a voice lilted through the chamber syrupy sweet and sharp as broken glass.
"Awww… is the great Doctor scared of little old me?"
The words coiled from behind Wagner like smoke. Lyssara Vale leaned lazily against the doorway, crimson-streaked hair falling in wild strands, eyes alight with manic delight. She smirked, a grin that promised trouble, flame still clinging to her aura like perfume.
Marisov looked up from his reactor kit, wide-eyed, the glow of his crystals flickering faintly.
Zalthorion did not even lift his gaze from the files.
Lyssara's grin widened as she stepped fully into the office, boots leaving faint scorched prints on the polished floor. Her eyes darted between Wagner and Zalthorion before settling hungrily on Wagner.
"Come on, Herr Doktor," she sing-songed, twirling a half-burned scalpel she must have plucked from some unfortunate's kit. "All those years patching up the broken and burned, and you're still afraid of a little fire?" She flicked the scalpel, catching it by the blade with reckless ease, then giggled. "Oh wait that's because I made most of them broken and burned, ja?"
Wagner's jaw clenched, his German accent thick as thunder. "You… verrückte Frau. You should be locked in the deepest pit under this city, not walking its streets freely!" His voice cracked with both fury and something rarer fear.
Lyssara leaned closer, close enough that the faint heat radiating off her skin brushed him. She whispered in mock sympathy: "Aww… the great doctor still shakes when I'm around. It's adorable." Then louder, laughing sharply: "Do you think your medical charts can protect you? Bandages, scalpels pfah! You're only alive because boss over there finds you useful."
As her laugh rang out, a colder presence slid into the room. No words, no announcement just a shift in air pressure.
Sevrina had entered.
Her steps made no sound as she came to stand just behind her sister, her eyes like two polished embers. While Lyssara's grin was aimed at Wagner, Sevrina's gaze was fixed unyielding on Zalthorion. It wasn't the watchful look of a subordinate awaiting orders. It was something deeper. Possessive. Quietly burning.
Marisov stopped fiddling with his reactor kit. He clutched one of the rods in his little hands, glancing nervously between the sisters. His crystals flickered like candlelight in a storm. "Papa…" he said softly, unsure.
Wagner snapped his head toward Zalthorion, his voice sharp, desperate. "See?! Look at them! They belong in chains, not in your files, not in your city! Every time they come back, bodies follow!"
Lyssara gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Bodies? Oh, Doctor, you flatter me. I don't take all the credit!" She winked at Marisov, who shrank back behind his kit, uneasy.
Sevrina remained silent, her eyes never leaving Zalthorion. Finally, she tilted her head slightly, just enough to break the stillness. "You knew we would return," she said calm, toneless, a statement more than an accusation. "And yet… you pretend to be surprised."
Zalthorion finally looked up from his files. His eyes swept across Wagner, Marisov, Lyssara, and landed on Sevrina. The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.
Lyssara grinned wider, flames dancing faintly across her fingers. Sevrina's stare sharpened, like she was silently daring him to answer. Wagner bristled, face red, torn between fury and fear.
And Marisov… Marisov sat clutching the unfinished nuclear reactor, his little voice trembling as he whispered, "Please don't fight…"
Zalthorion finally stopped typing. His hand hovered above the holographic keyboard, crystalline light reflecting off his unreadable eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but it carried weight enough to grind the room still.
Zalthorion: "Enough."
Lyssara, mid-step toward Wagner, halted as if her boots had been chained to the floor. The smirk never left her lips, but the fire behind her eyes dimmed. Sevrina, still behind her sister, didn't so much as flinch her gaze locked entirely on Zalthorion, unwavering, hungry, as though the rest of the room didn't exist.
Dr. Wagner let out a sharp exhale, still tense, muttering under his breath in his thick German accent. "Mein Gott… you treat them like pets when they are wolves."
Zalthorion rose slowly from his desk, his height commanding, his presence enough to quiet even the embers flickering faintly in Lyssara's palms. He looked from one sister to the other, his expression calm but edged with steel.
Zalthorion: "You will both leave. Now. The meeting place."
Both sisters stiffened. The command was absolute there was no questioning it. The "meeting place": a sanctuary, once full of life when all his personal agents gathered between missions. Now it lay mostly abandoned, collecting silence, its games and halls waiting like a memory.
Lyssara tilted her head, her grin widening.
Lyssara: "Dusting off the old haunt, are we? Hah. Fine, fine, boss-man. But don't think you can keep me away from our dear doctor forever." She blew Wagner an exaggerated kiss, fire sparking from her fingertips as it drifted mockingly through the air.
Dr. Wagner recoiled, swatting at it, cursing. "Scheiße we are not doing zis again!"
Sevrina didn't move immediately. She stood tall in the doorway, her crimson eyes never leaving Zalthorion, a quiet intensity in them like a vow unsaid. Only when his gaze fell directly on her did she finally nod, slow and deliberate, before stepping back into the hall.
For a long moment, their footsteps echoed away. Silence crept back into the office, broken only by the tiny clicking of Marisov's hands working on his model reactor in the corner.
Dr. Wagner pressed a hand to his chest, still trying to catch his breath. "You… you unleash zem again, Zalthorion, and I swear zis city vill drown in blood and ash."
Zalthorion sat back down, resuming his files with unnerving calm.
Zalthorion: "Then it is my task to make sure it does not."
Marisov looked up from his reactor kit, his innocent voice cutting through the tension. "Papa… are they bad guys or good guys?"
Zalthorion didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the holographic display, where Lyssara's and Sevrina's files pulsed faintly in red. Finally, he closed them both with a single swipe.
Zalthorion: "…That depends on who is asking."
Dr. Wagner muttered to himself in German as he paced in front of the desk, his accent thick with irritation.
"Verdammt… verdammt… always chaos, always fire… und jetzt zis nonsense with the sisters…"
He spun around suddenly, pointing a finger at Zalthorion. "I want to go on a mission! To search for the missing Blackwall AI! I will not sit idly while—"
Zalthorion raised a hand, calm as ever. "No. Something big is about to happen. I will need all of my most trusted agents I can get when it occurs. When it is over, I will send you in your merry way." His gaze didn't waver, steady and absolute. "Go to the meeting place. Bring Vidarath. I do not care if you have to drag him there yourself."
Wagner's face twisted, half outrage, half disbelief. He stormed off, lab coat flaring, muttering under his breath about fools, chaos, and a city on fire.
The door clicked open behind him. Azura entered, her presence immediately filling the room. Marisov's eyes lit up like a pair of suns; the tiny boy leapt from the floor and ran to her, chattering excitedly.
Azura smiled, walking over to Zalthorion and massaging the tension from his shoulders. She leaned close, her voice low, a silky whisper just for him.
"Seems a lot of stress is coming your way… maybe we can relieve some of it, my darling."
Zalthorion chuckled softly, taking her hand in his, brushing his lips against it in a brief, careful kiss. "How about later? Marisov is here."
Azura's grip on his shoulders and the hand he held tightened without warning, strength coiling like steel beneath her delicate exterior. Zalthorion felt the pressure, capable of cracking metal in the wrong hands but he remained unfazed.
Her whisper was sharp, possessive, and clear:
"That bitch Sevrina better not try anything. You belong to me… and me alone."
She released him just enough to scoop up Marisov in her arms, holding him close. The boy giggled, and she laughed softly in return. They talked together like mother and son, voices mingling in a private rhythm of warmth and happiness.
Zalthorion leaned back in his chair, eyes softening, a rare, unguarded smile spreading across his face. He could only gaze at the scene, the little family-like moment anchoring him against the storm of chaos gathering outside his office walls.
For a brief moment, the world shrank to that room two devoted figures, one child, and the quiet knowledge that, for now, he was surrounded by those he trusted most.
◇◇◇
The facility buzzed with restrained anticipation, its humming lights and walls alive with the weight of what was about to happen. Nyxia stood at Dr. Erskine's side, his posture sharp and focused. He had been working quietly in the background for weeks, ensuring the delicate calibrations of Stark's machinery would sync perfectly with the serum. Where Howard had the showmanship and Erskine the vision, Nyxia had been the steady, unseen hand a man tethered between science and something stranger.
The door opened, and Steve Rogers entered with Peggy Carter at his side. For a fleeting moment, Nyxia studied Steve the frail shoulders, the hopeful eyes and felt a strange resonance. Here was someone willing to bear weight he had no right to carry, someone who had been chosen not because of what he was, but who he was.
"Please, not now," Erskine muttered, shooing away an aide before turning to Steve. His expression softened. "Are you ready? Good. Take off your shirt, your tie, and your hat."
Steve obeyed, his nerves barely concealed beneath awkward humor.
Meanwhile, the gallery above filled with officials Senator Brandt, Colonel Phillips, and a scattering of State Department suits. Nyxia's gaze flicked upward briefly, catching the sneer of the Senator as he quipped about sandwiches and headlines. It was the same posturing he'd heard from men who never risked their own skin. Nyxia folded his arms and kept his silence.
The chamber itself dominated the room a towering steel cradle rimmed with Stark's genius. Nyxia had helped reinforce the conduit seals just yesterday, his hands stained with grease and notes. Even now, he could see the faint shimmer of contained energy pulsing through the cables that snaked toward the pod.
Erskine moved about his patient with clinical ease. "Comfortable?"
"It's a little big," Steve replied, glancing at the straps. He forced a smile. "You save me any of that schnapps?"
"Not as much as I should have," Erskine said with regretful warmth. Then his eyes flicked toward Nyxia for the briefest second a silent trust, as though saying, watch me, in case I falter.
Howard adjusted the controls, his voice pitched with confident bravado. "Levels at a hundred percent. We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we're ready as we'll ever be."
Erskine raised his voice for the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, today we take not another step toward annihilation, but the first step on the path to peace. We begin with a series of microinjections into the subject's major muscle groups."
Nyxia leaned closer as the needles pierced Steve's skin, catching the minute shifts in his breathing, the wince that passed too quickly. His gaze lingered not on Steve's weakness but his refusal to flinch.
"That wasn't so bad," Steve muttered.
"That was penicillin," Erskine replied with a ghost of a smile.
The serum followed blue vials hissing as their contents drained into the boy's veins. The cradle rose, shifting Steve upright, the chamber sealing around him. Nyxia's pulse quickened; he had seen the calculations a hundred times, run simulations in his mind, but nothing could prepare him for reality.
Howard's voice steadied the countdown. "Ten percent. Twenty. Thirty. Forty."
At first, Steve's vitals were normal. Then came the pain. His scream ripped through the chamber, sharp enough to still even Howard's banter.
"Steven!" Erskine barked, horror in his tone.
"Shut it down!" Peggy shouted from the booth, her fists slamming against the glass.
Nyxia took half a step forward, instinct gnawing at him, but Erskine held up a trembling hand. His eyes burned with desperation. "No! Give him the chance!"
Inside, Steve's voice fought against agony: "No! Don't! I can do this!"
The readings spiked eighty, ninety, one hundred. Sparks cascaded from the panel. Nyxia tightened his grip on the railing, his knuckles pale, until with a final groan the machine powered down.
The chamber hissed open.
Where once stood the sickly frame of Steve Rogers, now stepped out a man reborn taller, broader, his body a sculpted promise. Gasps filled the room. Even Nyxia found himself exhaling as though he had been holding his breath for hours.
Erskine's hand shook as he reached for Steve's arm. "Steven. Steven." His voice was thick, pride and relief mingling.
The Colonel's booming voice broke through. "The son of a bitch did it."
Steve blinked at himself, bewildered. "I did it."
"No," Erskine corrected softly, smiling despite tears in his eyes. "We did it."
Howard laughed in disbelief. "You actually did it."
Peggy stepped closer, her eyes wide, her words quiet but steady. "How do you feel?"
Steve flexed a hand, still stunned by his own reflection. "Taller."
"You look taller," Peggy admitted, unable to hide the faint curl of her lips.